


She's Silver, I'm Blue

by MaraudingManaged



Series: Maraudings and Wanderings [3]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Christmas, Domestic Fluff, F/F, Fluff, Secret Santa
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-21
Updated: 2018-12-21
Packaged: 2019-09-23 19:38:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,358
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17086478
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MaraudingManaged/pseuds/MaraudingManaged
Summary: Written for the FotR Secret Santa, Hermione and Fleur decorate their new home ready for Christmas.





	She's Silver, I'm Blue

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Willowingends](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Willowingends/gifts).



> Eternal thanks to my beta and mistress Shootingdaggers for running her eyes over this, and for the beautiful aesthetic!

The light, playful strains of In Dulce Jubilo play as Hermione sips the decadent hot chocolate. There is a warmth in the room from the crackling, popping, hissing log fire that she had insisted upon as a Christmas tradition she has always rather loved. The house smells of pine and bittersweet chocolate, ginger, and all manner of other wonderful things that signal the 12 days leading up to Christmas day.

  
In the middle of it, a lithe, blonde woman is alternating between dancing to the music and organising boxes of decorations that haven’t seen the light of day for twelve months, chattering to herself. Hermione cannot prevent an appreciative smile capturing her lips and her eyes rove over the lithe form that is dancing, fae-like, about the room as she alternates between lightly accented English and her native tongue.  
  
Because that is what Fleur Delacour is, Hermione thinks. Fae-like and enchanting, and magical in a way that she is unable to quite put her finger on, but is apparent to her nonetheless. For a man, that would be her inherent beauty that stirs even the coldest of hearts, but for Hermione… she is something more. Something precious beyond her magic and enchantments that every man she has ever encountered seems to fall prey to eventually, no matter how hard Fleur tries.  
  
“‘Ermione, please, for ze love of Merlin and Morgana, pass me ze box!”  
  
Hermione grins, startled from her reverie with a small jump and a blink. Ah yes, those dulcet tones bordering-on-shrieking would be the flitting ball of odd panic and stress that Fleur becomes when she is decorating the Christmas tree. She is wound up with armfulls of fairy lights that are making her glow from without as well her natural glow from within, and Hermione cannot help but giggle as she puts down the steaming mug of hot chocolate.  
  
“There’s no need for all this panic, you know.”  
  
“No need for panic? No need for panic, she says.” Fleur’s hands fly upward, the lights sliding down her arms. “You realise, bien sûr, zat Maman and Papa will be ‘ere before ze week is out, oui? You have been so busy at work zat ze sapin ‘as not been decorated!”  
  
“Fleur…” Hermione reaches out to try and take the lights from her, alarm swelling in her own chest at Fleur’s dramatic gestures, and the fear she will somehow hurt herself or Hermione whilst flailing.  
  
“Non! I shall do zis! You can sort ze... ze…” She snaps her fingers twice and points towards the box of tree decorations. “... zose!”  
  
“Baubles?” Hermione supplies in an attempt to be helpful, cheerfully directing herself towards the box of shining silver, twinkling blue, and glittering white ornaments purchased from muggle and magical shops alike.  
  
Instead, despite her desire to be helpful and comforting, it seems to be the entirely wrong thing for her to say. Fleur’s fit of temper appears to break, crumbling brick-by-brick in front of Hermione’s eyes until a choked cry escapes her lips and she buries her head in her hands, fairy lights and all. Hermione flinches - their second Christmas together, and she hates to see Fleur cry more than crying herself, which is something she categorically despises.  
  
“Come here, love.” She murmurs and reaches out, looping her arms around Fleur’s neck and drawing her close in a hug. Fleur’s hair cascades over Hermione’s shoulder and arm, and Hermione strokes the silken strands in what is usually a soothing motion for the tempestuous woman she so loves. “What is it really? It isn’t actually about the decorating at all, is it? It never is, when you start going full-French at me.”  
  
Fleur sniffs a laugh through her ebbing tears, her words muffled and face still buried in the crook of Hermione’s neck. “Oh, be quiet. Just… Just ‘old me, hm?”  
  
And so Hermione does, arms wrapped around the woman who is herself wrapped in lights, and they stand together in the middle of the lounge as closely pressed as two people can be with six hundred fairy lights between them. Hermione feels a small smile play on her lips as she closes her eyes and the glow from between them still shines bright behind her eyelids, as if she is somehow wrapped in the moon, or a star. Fleur’s breathing steadies from the rapid rise and fall that had wracked her frame, and Hermione feels peppered kisses against her neck that makes her squirm and giggle.  
  
“I am worried, ‘Mione.” Fleur whispers, lifting her head at last. Hermione reaches up and flicks away the tracks of her tears, earning a nuzzled cheek into the palm of her hand. “You smell like parchment, you know zis?”  
  
Always do, love.” Hermione runs her thumb gently over Fleur’s cheek. “Side effect of the Ministry archives.”

“It always makes me think of you, zat scent. Makes me think of ‘ome. For zis cottage is ‘ome to me now. I wish for it to be perfect for when Maman, Papa an’ Gabrielle visit, for zey worry - you know zis. If I can show zem zat our ‘ome, our Christmas, is perfect, then they will see zat we are settled an’ content.”  
  
Hermione's stomach is overcome with butterflies, and suddenly she sees why Fleur has become so anxious and such a bundle of nervous energy in the lead-up to Christmas. They both work so hard, and sometimes long hours that leave them passing one another like ships in the night, that little things like remembering to decorate a home for Christmas can pass them by until they are running around trying to get everything done at light-speed.  
  
But this year matters more, because they are hosting the Delacours for the first time - and Fleur feels the need to honour as many of her own traditions as Hermione does.  
  
“Right then.” Hermione steps back, all business as she plants her hands on her hips. “This house will be decorated tonight, or so help me Merlin, I will take tomorrow off and do it myself. The Elf Rights Bill amendments can wait for one day, and so close to Christmas the Wizengamot won't move on anything I put forward anyway, so I'll be blue, and you'll be silver?”  
  
Fleur is gaping at her as Hermione wordlessly summons all of the blue baubles into one pile by the base of the tree. “You… you really mean zat?” She whispers, the lights sagging in her arms.

Hermione pauses, a wicked smirk suddenly capturing her lips as she thinks her idea over. “Well, come to think of it, I could just take tomorrow off anyway. I've 15 sick days to use, and I've not touched any of them in three years. It's about time, don't you think?”

In a fit of romanticism and spontaneity than Hermione doesn't often show, she languidly strolls back to Fleur and captures her mouth in a soft, searching kiss. Fleur immediately responds, her tongue running along the seam of Hermione's mouth and kindling a tingle of magic wherever bare skin presses against bare skin. Hermione can taste the hot chocolate on Fleur’s tongue, along with the brandy that she likes to stir in during the winter months, as she relents and permits Fleur the control of the kiss she so craves.

“You should be silver, mon coeur.” Fleur speaks against Hermione's mouth, their breaths mingling and sweet. “For you are precious indeed. It is sad zat so few see ze beauty in simple silver, when in zee right hands it can glow.”

Hermione feels her face heat. “Then it's you that makes me beautiful?” She teases, turning her head away to hide her blush.

“Perhaps. Or perhaps, when combined wiz sapphire, togezer zey make somezing truly enchanting.” She turns Hermione's face back to her, and the deep blue eyes Hermione adores fix on her intently.

Her mouth is on Hermione's again, the lights falling into a puddle at their feet, and Hermione thinks she can feel their glow all the way to her bones as the woman she loves holds her in front of the Christmas tree.

In that moment, she feels truly precious.


End file.
